


Call Me Glory

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Baby Clones (Star Wars), CC-2224 | Cody's Name Is Kote, Clone Trooper Culture (Star Wars), Commander Cody Week 2021, Gen, Mandalorian Clone Troopers (Star Wars), Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Military Training, Planet Kamino (Star Wars), Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Pre-Canon, Protective Jango Fett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 11:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: “Again.” CC-2224 spat the word out, blood trickling down his chin, thick and wet and blotting out everything else, as he pushed himself back onto his feet.
Relationships: Alpha-17 & CC-2224 | Cody, CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody & Jango Fett
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	Call Me Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Day 01: Bonds  
> Translations in the bottom notes!

“Again.” CC-2224 spat the word out, blood trickling down his chin, thick and wet and blotting out everything else, as he pushed himself back onto his feet. The world tipped around him, the floor buckling beneath his feet as if the ever-present storm had finally broken into the building. 

“Again?” Alpha-17’s eyes were wide and dark, and filled with something CC-2224 couldn’t name. Amusement, maybe? Regret? Whatever it was fled in an instant as Alpha-17 stepped forward, the sound of his feet muffled by the softer floor of the training mat, but it still reminded CC-2224 of the closing of a bulkhead door: final and resolute. “Step up then, shiny.”

When Alpha-17 put him down on the mat again, CC-2224 stayed down, the knee in his back a warning as the weight of the older clone pressed him further into the pad. The warning came as a whisper as Alpha-17 stood, cold fear curling down CC-2224’s spine: “Careful now, vod’ika. Mother’s watching.”

Alpha-17 left, each step calm and measured like the beating of a drum, the sound echoing back to CC-2224 as if it was a battalion marching away from him, but he didn’t move. Alpha-17’s warning twisted round his thoughts like a skipped track, slowly infecting everything else until CC-2224 felt a scream bubble up in his throat. Methodically, he bit his tongue, the steady pressure shifting into a wave of pain until the urge slowly ebbed away. 

Carefully, he rolled his head to look towards the small observation deck set into one wall. The screen in front of it had once been fully reflective, showing the featureless metal walls and his steady, blank stare, but now the surface was pitted and tarnished. One of the corners had been shattered during a training exercise, the cracks slipping across the surface like a web. A flicker of movement in the broken, visible section betrayed the hiding place of the younger clone.

“Come out then, vod’ika!” CC-2224 called, his voice hoarse and cracked. Every movement felt like agony, his muscles having locked into place as the chill settled over the room now that the heavy electronic cameras — the Kaminoans’ eyes in the sky, almost always watching with their myriad blinking lights — had shut off for a moment. They would cycle back on eventually, a rhythm every clone had learned, but weren’t always manned. He knew he would have a moment of peace before he emerged out into the network of corridors, and was under their scrutiny once more. 

The blonde hair wasn’t a surprise anymore, haloed around CT-7567’s face in tight curls as he scampered towards CC-2224. He could see the younger clone was in between growth cycles, his limbs compact but his cheeks were still rounded and flushed. 

“Bacta?” CT-7567 mumbled around the edge of the nail he was chewing on, brow furrowed in intense concentration. He moved to flop onto CC-2224’s lap, but caught himself halfway, a wave of anguish flickering across his face.

“No, I’m fine.” CC-2224 reached up to him, and CT-7567 curled into him, his cheek resting against CC-2224’s chest. It ached, the smaller clone unintentionally pressing on the developing bruises that Alpha-17 left — all carefully in non-vital areas — but CC-2224 pulled him closer. “I have to keep pushing myself to be better.”

“You’re already the best,” CT-7567 argued with such perfect childish belief that CC-2224 was helpless to do anything other than let the laughter bubble up, curling forward to draw the other into Keldabe. 

CC-2224 let out a steady breath, letting his eyes close, the constant weight he carried on his shoulders abating for a moment. 

“Alpha-17 is just trying to follow what Jango taught him. So we can all be mandokarla.”

CT-7567 nodded sagely, but CC-2224 could sense the slight darting of his eyes and that he was chewing his lip as he mused it over, not fully understanding. 

“Have you met Jango before?” His voice was hushed, almost reverent, and CC-2224 had to bite back a laugh. What were they teaching the shinies once they were decanted now? Jango Fett was their donor, and they were made in his image like the religions of long ago, but he was still just a man. 

“No, I haven’t.” But he was lying.

CC-2224 met Jango Fett, the man rather than the deity who was both teacher and executioner, once. 

The air of the corridor was cold and still, the heavy scent of salt lying thickly on the air, coating CC-2224’s tongue as he wept. He could still feel the pressure of the eyes of the other clones as the large door to the rec room opened, and only he walked through, bereft of his batchmates. The realisation that flickered over their faces was a reflection of his own horror upon awakening to the message on his datapad, before they quickly hid it behind blank professionalism. But the gentle tap of their fingers against their wrists, as light as a bird’s wing in the simulations, followed him like the ghost of a heartbeat. 

He couldn’t get away from it then, the crushing weight that they had been ripped from him before they had truly become people, before they were able to be more than their numbers, so he ran and hid. 

The plan descended on him, half-formed, as he squeezed through the small hatch that granted him access to the eyeless wiring channels and the ducts. They were Mando’a; that was the first thing they learned. They were Mando’a, no matter what anyone else told them.

But they would wear no beskar to paint, only plastoid armour, and CC-2224 had none of his own and had not inherited any. There were the carefully scavenged tins of paint, slipped from batch to batch and unit to unit, barely two steps ahead of the rolling tide of inspections inflicted upon them. Currently, the Alpha Batch retained them in the corridor outside their pods, their armour an explosion of colour in every hue they could squeeze out of the limited palette. They passed down the knowledge in whispers, mouths barely moving under the guise of inspections or during training, so he knew the colours held meaning. 

CC-2224’s soul felt bathed in gold, so he slipped through the ductwork, his ribs scraping against the heated metal as wires sparked and snapped over his head, until he emerged, dust clinging to his hair and settling in his lungs. The metal rafters creaked beneath his feet as he slipped down from them, retrieving the paint from it’s hiding place behind a service panel and scrambling back up in an instant. 

It clung to his fingers, the scent acrid in the air, and he carefully swiped it over his forearm, goosebumps rising in its wake. CC-2224 breathed out shakily, the grief for his lost brothers rising once more, and he set to work. Hours could have passed as he worked diligently, but he froze as voices echoed back along the corridor towards him. 

The Kaminoans were instantly recognisable with their high, measured voices, but the other took him a moment before realisation sparked through him, almost knocking him from his perch.

During training, Jango’s accent was carefully modulated, locked beneath an iron-tight control into careful neutrality. But now it rose and fell like the sun, burning bright with anger. 

“Hut’un!” The word was snapped, clear as day, and CC-2224 swayed on his precarious perch, eyes wide. Jango’s steps were a war-drum accompaniment to the Kamionan’s swaying stride as the pair passed beneath CC-2224. 

“You go on,” Jango said, pausing just beneath CC-2224’s hiding place, causing his heart to leap into his throat, a cold sweat slipping down his spine as his heart ceased to beat in his chest. The Kaminoan inclined their head and continued without breaking stride, leaving Jango alone in the hallway. When he tipped his face back to meet CC-2224’s gaze, he thought he was going to die, bedecked in the gold of vengeance. But an almost unreadable expression passed over Jango’s face, a deep sorrow flickering like a leviathan passing just beneath the surface, before it was gone. 

Wordlessly, he cracked the panel the paint was hidden behind and drew out the smaller tin of orange. He ducked his head to inspect it, and CC-2224 caught sight of a network of scars peeking out from the loose collar of his shirt and shrunk back further against the rafter. The metal groaned and protested with the movement, but Jango didn’t move. 

“For Kote,” he said, finally, flashing CC-2224 a quick grin as he stretched up to offer the paint to the clone, who took it with unsteady hands, his eyes wide. Jango whistled as he walked away, something light that belayed the tension in the lines of his shoulders.

Orange for life. CC-2224 couldn’t guess at Prime’s motivations, but he felt the knot in his chest lessen, ever so slightly, as he drew the orange paint over the gold and finally let him cry.

⁂

“Back again so soon, vod’ika?” Alpha-17 called when CC-2224 stepped into the training room. A hush fell over the others, heads turning like reefs blown in a breeze to stare at him, silent and waiting.

CC-2224 merely nodded, taking his place in the line-up. That night’s sleep had been filled with coiling dreams and ran through with a thread of violent orange. He had to get better. He had to improve to keep his brothers safe, and — as Alpha-17 had roughly scrubbed the paint from his skin that night a few months ago, letting CC-2224 sob weakly onto his shoulder as he worked — the other clone knew it too.

“Always eager for glory.” 

Alpha-17 paused in his pacing, head slowly turning towards CC-2224 like a big cat sizing up its prey. A chill ran down CC-2224’s spine, but he remained in place, despite the urge to run suddenly coiling in his gut. 

“Kote.” Alpha-17 rolled the word around his tongue, catching CC-2224’s eye for the barest indicator of agreement. A name wasn’t something to take lightly, after all.

“Kote. Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’vod.”

“Alpha-17. Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’vod,” the newly named Kote echoed back at him.

Alpha-17 grinned, the same grin as Prime: fierce, righteous, protective rage and fury all honed to an edge, before he stepped away. Taking the pain with the pleasure was always his way of teaching, after all, the name acting as both a warning and reminder of his goal.

Kote grinned to himself. Kote, glory. It was a fitting name, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr!](https://inkformyblood.tumblr.com) Requests are always welcome!  
> Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'vod = I know your name as my brother.  
> Kote = Glory  
> Mother = The Kaminoans [[From Maulusque on tumblr](https://maulusque.tumblr.com/tagged/clone%20culture)]  
> Hut’un = Coward  
> Vod’ika = little brother


End file.
